The young man turned and left the room. He was completely under the control of this Machiavelli--the person whose evil influence controlled the fate of many, whilst he appeared indolent.

They were merry days at Aldborough Park on the occasion of the wedding of Hilda Muirhead to Sir Raife Remington. Again the church bells pealed, and the tenants and retainers met for a feast, at which there was much rejoicing. Edgson, the old butler, was not there. It was his privilege to be at the house in Mayfair, and there he took his place, honoured in the rank of servitors, which had been swelled from those at Aldborough Park.

Mr Muirhead, with an apt.i.tude which belongs to the aristocrats of the United States, took his part remarkably well. Lady Remington was gracious and kindly to all. These were Raife's happiest moments. His innate modesty made him the more attractive to every one, for there was the dominating personality of a strong, active man pervading the whole situation. Hilda had no doubts. There was no sense of perturbation.

She was radiant, happy, and beautiful. She accepted everything. Lady Remington tendered every loving service to her, personally, and she was not allowed time to reflect on the "other woman." The "other woman" was only known to herself and Raife. The others knew not of her. Raife and herself did not speak of this dread apparition which had by some mysterious means crossed the path of their perfect love several times.

A wedding at St George's, Hanover Square, is frequently an impressive ceremony. On the day of Raife's wedding there was more than the usual crowd of bystanders. The church was filled with a smartly-dressed number of society women and men. There were no white horses, but a Rolls-Royce and a Mercedes car took their place. The pages, dressed in the Tudor costume of the period of Edward the Sixth, were there, and a throng of people who represented many grades of the peerage. Hilda was dressed as the best Court dressmakers of London, alone, can dress a woman for an occasion. Raife, with the help of a Cork Street tailor, was immaculate, and his best man was Edward Mutimer, his old college chum, who was with him on the front at Southport when he met Gilda Tempest for the first time.

The ceremony of marriage was complete. The choir had sung. The organist had played the Bridal March from "Lohengrin." It was not an occasion for Mendelssohn's Wedding March. The rice had been thrown and the gaping crowd of onlookers were satisfied. Raife and Hilda were alone, for a few moments, in the Rolls-Royce car. They were the briefest moments of his short lifetime. They did not talk, for there was too much cause for thought.

Smartest among the well-dressed women in St George's, Hanover Square, was Gilda Tempest. It was not hard, with the confidence and skill which had served her on so many occasions, for Gilda to join the guests who were invited to the reception that followed the wedding. The occasion was quite conventional, and Hilda had left to prepare for departure on the honeymoon. Every one was chatting merrily and Raife was leaving the room, when, to his intense surprise, he was confronted by Gilda.

"You here?" he exclaimed.

"Yes, Raife. I am here. I must talk to you, I am so sad--so alone.

Let me talk to you. It will probably be the last time. Let me talk to you--"

Un.o.bserved by the merry crowd of guests who were bandying commonplaces to the sipping of champagne and various wines, Raife led Gilda into a conservatory which overlooked a drab old London garden--or backyard, with a lilac bush in full blossom.

Raife spoke harshly: "What do you want? Why do you come here, to-day?-- to-day of all days! Why do you come here?"

Gilda Tempest spoke. In short, staccato accents she said: "Raife!

Raife, I must speak to you. You are the only person in this wide world, to whom I can speak. Let me speak to you. Raife! I must talk, just for the briefest while."

All the old and strange fascination of this extraordinary girl returned.

Raife stood entranced by this absorbing figure. The scene that followed was unparalleled in the history of a wedding-day. Her beauty had returned to her. She was no longer haggard, and there were no lines to mar her face. Her whole soul appealed to him, and, in spite of all the conventions, he responded.

Raife Remington fell--and fell in a most inconceivable manner.

The time drew near for the departure of the wedded couple. Hilda, looking charming in her travelling-dress, was going round and saying good-bye to the guests. The last farewell spoken, she looked round for her husband. A sudden premonition of something disastrous, something awful, a.s.sailed her and communicated itself to the others. Where was Raife? A dozen voices cried out. There was a hurried search in every room where he could possibly be. A few moments of agonised suspense and wonder, and then the horrible truth was revealed.

The bridegroom had disappeared!

On the cliffs of Cromer were a hat and coat. The local police had been duly informed of the event, and the inspector, with a sergeant, were investigating the circ.u.mstances.

"Looks like suicide," said the inspector. "It's a good coat, too.

Well, let's get to work. What's in the pockets? We shall have the newspaper men round presently, and we must be ready for them when they get here. Curse the newspapers! Our job would be much easier if it were not for them. They smell out a tragedy like a fly finds treacle."

First came a silver card-case, with coronet and initials in multi-coloured jewels, "R.R." The cards were inscribed "Sir Raife Remington, Bart., Aldborough Park, Tunbridge Wells." This was a card-case presented by Hilda Muirhead in the happy days of courtship, which ended in marriage.

A letter, in brief, rasping sentences, was the next discovery. "Kismet!

Allah wills it. It was not to be. There is a curse in my life, and now I abandon my life." The letter was not signed.

The inspector tossed the letter to the sergeant, who, having read it, remarked, laconically: "Ten to one, there's a woman in the case."

The newspapers were very busy for many days after Raife's coat and hat had been found on the cliffs at Cromer.

Again Doctor Malsano sat in his den, and there was an expression of triumph on his face. Gilda Tempest was there, and the doctor spoke soothingly.

"Gilda, we are approaching the end. You played your part very well the other day at the wedding ceremony."

Gilda shuddered. The full force of the crime that she had been compelled to commit, confronted her.

Case-hardened, and soaked in the jaundiced atmosphere of criminality, the doctor continued to smile.

"Ha! ha! Remington thought he would escape. Your father killed him and he killed your father. But I am here, and his son shall not escape.

Gilda, you must complete the ruin of that young fool. The vendetta is not complete."

Gilda writhed as the old man murmured these hateful words. She loved Raife, and, in her sane moments, would have given more than her life for him. The baneful influence of her uncle had led her to wield a fateful power over the man she loved.

The scene that followed the disappearance of the bridegroom on the wedding-day in Mayfair does not admit of description.

Lady Remington, chastened by a sequence of sad events, remained stately, and carried off the situation with a grace that softened the difficulties of those trying moments.

The pride of Hilda Muirhead--Lady Remington--had been sorely tried. Mr Reginald Pomeroy Muirhead would have, unhesitatingly, shot Raife Remington if they had met.

Easy is the Avernian descent, and Raife had yielded to the malignant control of Doctor Malsano.

A newspaper sensation does not last very long, and the disappearance of Sir Raife Remington no longer occupied the s.p.a.ce that would be given to a Cabinet crisis.

The newspaper man on "a crime story" is not easily set aside. The intelligence of the police is far beyond that which they are paid for.

There were certain discrepancies in the circ.u.mstantial evidence which went to show that Sir Raife Remington had committed suicide.

A paragraph appeared in the daily papers to the effect that: "It is reported that Sir Raife Remington, who so mysteriously disappeared on the day of his wedding, has been seen in Paris."

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

ON THE TRAIL. THE FINDING OF THE RETICULE.

In the few minutes that Raife talked with Gilda Tempest in the conservatory in Mayfair, he had made his plans. They were quite discreditable to him, but he was no longer a free agent. Gilda's influence had captured him completely, and it was an influence for evil.

Gilda, in turn, was entirely controlled by Doctor Malsano. They met in Paris, and theirs was the _abandon_ of a crazy infatuation, over which Doctor Malsano exercised his cunning. The wayward Raife Remington had fallen very low indeed. Hidden away in the Rue Lafayette was a small flat. It was the scene of many ugly situations; but, throughout all, the relationship of Raife and Gilda was purely platonic. He had left his wife on her wedding-day. He had abandoned himself to a scandalous life.

Doctor Malsano's gang of continental crooks worked in varying directions, and there was very little in the way of villainy that did not come within the scope of their operations, and Raife was entangled in them. Malsano, through Gilda, controlled Raife's actions. Only on one point was he firm. He refused to allow Gilda to remain the decoy, and his unconquerable firmness brought him into antagonism with the doctor, who vowed to complete the revenge that was being carried out on the son of the man who had offended forty years previously.

It seemed incredible that a young aristocrat of ancient lineage, endowed with high moral and intellectual courage, could be dragged down to such depths. A crazy infatuation for a woman, who carried trouble in her train, for a woman who had displayed all the traits of inherent criminality, had brought Raife to a moral standard beneath contempt. It is not to be supposed that Raife had surrendered to his downfall without long and bitter struggles. Time and again he endeavoured to emerge from this fearful debacle. On each occasion the pleading of this fascinating woman held him in a closer grip, and the triumph of Malsano was complete.

The Dowager Lady Remington and the new Lady Remington did not believe the newspaper paragraph that stated that Raife had been seen in Paris.

In the midst of the overwhelming trouble, the crushing blow to their pride, these two women solaced one another, and hoped against hope.

Neither could believe that the man who possessed such amiable and loving qualities could have destroyed himself, or wantonly disappeared in such cruel circ.u.mstances.